


everything yielding of them

by thescyfychannel



Series: Intricacy AU [2]
Category: Homestuck
Genre: Bath Sex, Bathing/Washing, Dom Drop, F/M, Flirting, Floofy Haired Amporas, Flustered Amporas, M/M, Minor Injuries, Multi, Post Shower Hair, Power Dynamics, Power Imbalance, Rough Kissing, Roughness, Self Confidence Issues, Self-Conscious Amporas, Shy Amporas, Top Drop, minor cold
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-03-29
Updated: 2019-04-13
Packaged: 2019-12-26 02:05:32
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 3,724
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18273590
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thescyfychannel/pseuds/thescyfychannel
Summary: Maybe you knew there were always soft sides to the Ampora boys, but you didn't think you'd ever get an opportunity to see them so damn close.





	1. softer sides, quiet tides

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Lizardlicks](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Lizardlicks/gifts), [auxanges](https://archiveofourown.org/users/auxanges/gifts).



If there's anything you've learned about Ampora boys, it's that they're vain as peacocks, each and every one. You don't think you've ever seen one in less than almost perfect condition (save just out of the sparring block, when you've all been taking turns pounding the shit out of each other, and even _then_ they're disgustingly attractive), and you'd begun to get the feeling that you never would.

You'd wondered if it _might_ end up being a possibility, seeing one of them a little ruffled up, when the three of you had started sharing a concupiscent platform, but the hashtag aesthetic had continued, along with the absolutely stupid amounts of product in their hair. It was enough to give a girl the glubs! Or at least, it would be, if you hadn't already given up on _ever_ seeing them with their hair down. Literally.

 

It ends up happening entirely by accident—you'd been heading to Eridan's room, to borrow a book he'd promised you the other night, and he was just walking out of the shower when you arrived.

Steam billows around him, his hips are swathed in a deep violet towel, it's like something out of the best kind of pailvids you've ever seen—he's squinting, just slightly, the lack of glasses adding to everything making him all _soft_ —

You want to touch his hair so bad. It's just a trifle on the longer side, all fluffy and wavy from the shower, and when he finally puts his glasses on and actually spots you, he makes a startled, trilling noise, and darts back into the bathroom.

Fucking _swoon._  

 

You end up having to chase him down, and even _then_ he's stupid levels of sulky about the whole thing. It takes several rounds of kisses, of hair skritches and purring at him, of _eventually_ leading him back to the concupiscent platform and snuggling up with him and _telling_ him exactly how pretty he is all soft and sweet, and when that doesn't quite convince him, you end up _showing_ him.

 

* * *

 

If you didn't know them both, you wouldn't think it possible, but Cronus Ampora's even more of a vain fuck than his linemate is by far, and it takes you even _longer_ to catch him with his guard down than it does to catch Eridan.

You end up catching him as you did Eridan—on complete accident, and by having the right timing.

 

Amporas tend to be a little more cuddly and clingy than most seadwellers you've met. You think it's something to do with being top of the food chain, or maybe something to do with the fact that they're all touch- and attention-starved beyond normal troll belief.

Post-sparring was a good time for this—you'd all scurry off to your separate rooms, clean up, then congregate in the room of whoever had taken the longest. Usually, you were the one finding them—they tended to clean up together, or take longer getting _ready_ for snuggles. Glubbing dumbasses, in your opinion, you didn't _care_ what they looked like, but there it was.

For this run, though, Eridan was off on another assignment, and it had been you versus Cro for what felt like hours without end.

The two of you were deeps-blessed close to an even match and it didn't take much work from either of you to set the pitch sparks flying. You'd competed enough to satisfy the Orphaner, and when he'd taken his leave, you'd kept it up as long as you could, right up until the biting and clawing got a little more... _directed._

So one thing had led to another, had led to his room, then to his shower for a quick scrub up, and you'd stumbled back out to the concupiscent platform before he was done cleaning up and all but passed out. _  
_

You _think_ he'd maybe been banking on that, because he comes out all floofy haired and soft, and your fins do a flutter—when he catches you staring, he freezes, and you roll onto your stomach, beaming at him. "You look so _good,_ Cro, wow, c'mere, let me pet you—"

 

It does the trick, much like you'd thought it would, and the two of you end up snuggled up together under the blankets until you fall asleep, one of your hands tangled into his curls. It's _nice._

* * *

It still takes perigees more of effort from you, as well as deliberate attempts to catch them in floofgrante delicto (in addition to your very happy accidents), to convince them that they look really, _really_ good with their hair down and washed out, all soft and shiny and touchable. That doesn't bother you in the least. Of all the things you have to do with your time, convincing the Ampora boys of how _pretty_ they are is one of the most worthwhile.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> the request was "ampora boys being Soft and someone going Swoon"  
> and aux had asked for it being feferi, because erifefcro  
> and anyway there's probably going to be a part three where dualscar's soft as well


	2. an impossibility of being

Timing is key, timing is always key—you think maybe that's why there was a bit of an _incident_ with the stars-forsaken clowns _just_ when your boys weren't around to protect the Orphaner.

If it were up to you, you'd cheerfully remove every last one of them from the face of the planet, and the galaxies above. The decision to do so _painfully_ comes when the Orphaner Dualscar stumbles back into the massive hive you've been learning to call home looking like he's seen the wrong side of several alcohol-imbibing blockspace fights.

The second he walks through the door, whatever willpower he'd been using to hold himself upright seems to fade. If it weren't for the quick reflexes he'd trained into you (into the three of you), you wouldn't be able to grab him before he hit the floor. You're very glad he keeps the number of hive attendants low, most of the time, and you manage to get most of his weight on your shoulders, and—

"Deeps," you swear, when you feel his blood smear over your skin.

"You should see the other guys," he rumbles, and starts stumbling towards his own block. "I'm fine, Peixes."

"Sir, if any of us said that while looking like you do right now, you'd laugh until you went blind." It actually makes him snort, and you gently redirect him towards your block. "I'm closer, sir. All due respect."

"Bit late for you to be offering respect, now, isn't it?"

"Of course, sir," you say, bland as possible, and bask in the flicker of annoyance you're rewarded with. You've learned, early on, that Dualscar has expectations of what a tyrian is like, and you've taken great pleasure in defying them.

 

* * *

 

He's definitely heavier than either of your boys, but you manage to get him all the way to your room without incident, or commenting on the fact that he's leaning on you more and more, the further you go. It's tempting. The thought of challenging the Orphaner is _incredibly_ tempting.

Instead, you chalk the urge up to his current state and keep moving, getting him settled on your concupiscent platform and going off to grab your mediculler's kit before he can say more about the rough handling than " _Hey—_ "

When you get back, kit in hand, you catch a glimpse of a sulk, just before he turns it into a scowl, and chalk up another point for yourself. "Peixes, nearabout as far as I recall, you were _not_ given leave to—"

"All due respect, sir—" flicker, glower "—you're in a shape that requires immediate action. Feel free to punish my transgressions, but I _would_ ask that you wait until I attend to your injuries."

You'd been expecting annoyance. Maybe another flicker of something else close kin to sulking or scowling, but not actual _laughter_ , but Dualscar throws his head back, seems genuinely pleased, or some other emotion far more positive than you thought would be coming. "You've certainly gotten bold, sweets. Any particular reason you care to share, hm?"

Your eyes go wide, your fins kick up a flutter before you can actually catch yourself—this is a step further than you expected, from the likes of him—and you can see the smug in his expression, now that it's his turn to revel in your reactions. Deeps, it's flustering enough to make you think that maybe he was giving you a once-over or something. "I, uh—"

"Settle, sweetness." Dualscar jerks his head at the kit. "You're the one who's insisting. Get to it."

 

If he's out to unsettle you, it's working, not that you'd ever admit it. Messing with your thinkpan seems to be a new hobby he's picking up, and you're not going to give him satisfaction. "Of course, sir."

Even battered, bruised, and painted a little more violet than you'd like, the Orphaner Dualscar sans his shirt is a sight to see. You catch yourself biting down on your lip, as you wipe injured skin clean and stitch up the worst cuts, staring, as you're bandaging the rest, and lingering a little bit too long as you do everything else. The worst part of it is his reactions—you're pretty deepsdamn sure he can _tell_ , what you're thinking and doing, judging on the hums and almost-purrs he's rolling out. He leans into your touch, he tips his head to look at you when you're out of his line of vision, and he keeps his eyes on you when you're in it.

His fins are just about the only thing that don't change, and they're what have you the most on edge. You _need_ to know what he's thinking, need more information than his reactions give you, but Dualscar's trained with the best of them—hell, he's _trained_ the best of them, and you're even more sure that he's not going to give away anything he doesn't _actually_ want you to know.

"I believe that's the last of it, sir," you murmur, and take note of the slightest of fin twitches. He'll take the title in public, from trolls he outranks, but you're reasonably sure he's got an issue or two with it coming from you. "Is there anything else I can do for you?"

You get three seconds (you definitely did not count them) to mentally curse yourself out for a line that sounds straight out of a pailvid. Then he snorts, rolls his shoulders and starts checking himself over, your indiscretions ignored for the moment. "You are _frightful_ good at what you do, sweets."

"All part of the job, sir." When you turn to pack up the kit, you're treated to the fin-raising prickle of his eyes on you. Petty you're not—usually—but it's enough to make you decide to dig the knife a little deeper. "And I'm _always_ happy to help out a troll in need."

Daring, you've decided, is the game of the night. Or maybe it's testing his limits, or maybe it's challenging your superior officer, or maybe even pushing one of the most renowned trolls in the galaxy just a _little_ too far. "I had assumed that you would have something specific in mind. Sir."

You turn back in time to catch a flash of his fangs, one that spreads into an easy smirk as he looks you over. "I'm often told that I do. Care to venture a guess on what it is, then?"

One thing you hadn't realized about the Orphaner Dualscar is that he is irritating beyond all rational belief. For once in your glubbing life, you're getting the feeling that you could _really_  relate to your Ancestor, or maybe even to the Marquise Spinneret Mindfang, his former—oh, _shit_.

 

As if he can sense the dangerous direction your thoughts are taking, Dualscar's pulled himself up to his feet and started getting dressed once more. Logically, you ought to assume he'd gotten tired of waiting for a reply, but logic isn't quite in charge at the moment. You know this because you've just grabbed the front of his unbuttoned shirt and hauled him down to your level, your own set of perfectly pointed fangs bared in a less than subtle threat. "Or maybe you could make things _easier_  for once and simply _tell_  me," you hear yourself saying, and wonder exactly what he did to provoke you into upping the ante like this. It _has_  to be something he did. This is _definitely_  not your usual type of behavior.

"Taking over negotiations in such a manner, on my property, no less, is quite rude," he says, no more reaction than a cocked eyebrow. It's enough to make you want to claw another set of marks into him. "You've got some nerve, sweets."

"We're in _my_  room," you say, and you can see the way it amuses him. " _Well_?"

He holds your gaze evenly, his attention so steady that you don't even _see_  his hands move until they're on your wrists, an iron grip you'd be hard pressed to lose. "What exactly do you have to trade?"

"I had your shirt, but I don't think that counts anymore." You can feel fire creeping up the length of your spine, feel your backfin flare out. "I _did_  patch you up, though. No one else in your hive the wiser, no one knowing that you were injured at all."

"That you did. Skillfully, even," he says, smirk shifting into something more like a grin. "You're not the only one with skills on offer, Feferi Peixes."

"I want to know what you're thinking," you insist, because you have to stick to _one_  of your demands before you go insane. When you try flexing your wrist in his grip, he doesn't budge an inch. "And..."

"And?"

"And, I'd like to know—I'd like to know what skills you've got on offer. Sir."

His thumb runs over the fast-flutter of your pulse, and you shiver again, your eyes closing for just a second. "Right now? I'm thinking maybe I have more to teach you." You think that's the end of it, you're pretty sure it is, until he leans in close enough that his mouth brushes your fin. "And if you call me sir one more time while we're horizontal, I'll have you work those skills on yourself."

Your wrists are still caught in his hands, and they end up pinned between the two of you when you lean in to kiss him. It's...maybe it's a shade more soft and sweet than you'd been intending, just a little too light on the fangs and emberfire that are part and parcel of proper pitch suit.

He is, after all, a temptation. A tempting challenge wrapped up in one of the hottest packages of seadweller that you've ever seen. But— _but_ —

 

Tempted as you are to kick his stupid, stubborn pride right out from under him, to bring him down pitchly and make him _thank_  you for it, you can see the pain in the creases at the corners of his eyes, you can see the slightest tremble in his fins, now that he thinks he's cornered you into begging for what you want, or going into it pitchways enough not to focus on how he's _actually_  doing, and...

You'd be lying if you didn't say it cut to the bone.

 

So you kiss him soft, and he tightens his grip on your wrists at the feel of it, and when he actually lets you go, you kiss him again. One of his hands tangles in your hair, hauling you up against him, and you think he's _maybe_  leaning into the instincts he's been teaching all three of you to fight against, and—

When he pulls back, you're caught between confusion and expectation. You don't know why he's doing it now, but you've been expecting him to all along, and when his expression shuts down completely, you're even more at sea. "Raivis?"

"You, Peixes," he says, his breathing—his _voice_ —rough. "You're being reckless. I don't recall sanctioning that, just as I don't recall suggesting you sprawl back for a troll like me. I could _easily_  hurt you deeper than you could ever fathom."

 

You have options. You could push him further, insist on the pitch fling you're pretty sure he wants. Or...

"I won't get hurt," you say, and his eyes go wide at the quiet promise, wider again when you lean back in and press your cheek to his, rubbing jaws in seadweller familiarity. "But I also won't let you push like this, s— _Raivis_. And I won't let you push yourself this hard, either. Not when you're not ready. Not yet."

He pulls further away, then, ready to bluster it off and leave as quickly as possible, but for once in your sweeps you manage to be a little too quick for him: your hands cup his face, tug him back down to your level, and you bump your forehead against his, a gesture of affection you've seen from him once, _maybe_ twice. "Peixes, you—"

"Please let me take care of you?" You're meeting his eyes again, no challenge implied, nothing left there but the caring you're so desperate to show. "Just for the day and the night. I'll have you back on your feet and in your own block, still with no one the wiser, before Eridan and Cronus get back home."

 

Something in him seems to break apart under your touch, and you herd him back onto the bed, now cleaned of mediculling supplies and blood, thanks to a few quick swaps with your sylladex. He's shivering a little more than you'd like, and you call up a warm blanket—then another, when he seems to like the weight over broad shoulders and scarred back. For all of five seconds, you consider leaving him tucked in and going off to fix him something _proper_  to eat, then he's hauling you down into the bed and curling around you like you're some kind of plush cuddle toy.

You would put up more of a fuss if he didn't start purring.

Instead, you settle there, forehead pressed to his, breathing in the scent of sea salt and sea blood, your legs tangled with the deeps damned _Orphaner_ , one hand tangled in his hair as you stroke over his sides, down his back. "Tell me what happened with the clowns," you say, and wonder of wonders, he actually does.

It's the strangest thing, but you don't think you'd trade it for anything else in the world.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> so I'm chucking this in with the first chapter because it's something of a successor/sequel  
> and oops dualscar doesn't have floofed hair so I suppose that'll be the chapter three


	3. the sweetness of light

The Orphaner, you find, cannot keep his hands off of your hair. You've called him out for his hypocrisy multiple times—the fact that he'll take your hair out of any style he finds it in, just to play with it whenever he likes, but you've never seen him go a night without some kind of product—and yet, it never seems to stick. He is, you're finding, blessed with the wisdom of age and the skill of all true seaborn, and you have _never_ managed to catch him with his—pardon the pun—hair down.

You have a feeling he's even more smug about this than he's willing to admit. Considering the look he gets after you accuse him of being a hypocrite, or when you sneak into his block, assuming you'll be able to catch him post-ablution, only to find him washed and dressed and sprawled out waiting for you, it's not exactly an ungrounded assumption, but it's also not _getting_  you anywhere.

And sure, you _do_  enjoy getting his attention, and yes, he _is_  phenomenally good at braiding your hair into designs you'd never even imagined, but coddamn, a girl has _needs_.

 

Your latest plan falls into a shambles when you walk into his block and find him buried in a nest of pillows, looking as miserable as you've ever seen him.

 

If there's anything you know about Amporas, it's that they don't handle minor setbacks well. Broken arms and life-threatening injuries are shrugged off like so much water; stubbed toes and paper cuts are the _literal_  end of the world. You think it's maybe got something to do with being an apex predator, or maybe just a function of their...personalities. Their entire thing. Whatever the glub it is.

You have a lecture, all set and ready to go, and then Raivis looks up at you, completely miserable, and dips his fins down and _fuck_. Instead of melting, you find yourself scooping him up, ignoring the way the absolutely _massive_  height difference makes him look like he's about to overflow your arms, and head for the ablution trap.

"M' _fine_ , sweets," he mumbles, shoving his face into your hair like it'll hide him from the impending doom of a warm bath. "Stop fussin."

"I'll fuss as much as I want to," you retort, getting the trap running and selecting a more soothing bath bomb from the seadweller-friendly set he kept on hand. "Considering how much we vacillate, I'm _allowed_."

"Yeah, yeah," he grumbles, then decides to keep himself busy by fiddling with your hair while you're trying to get him stripped down before you settle him in the tub. It's kind of adorable, whenever he decides to do this—more so, when you remember that he's got literally _thousands_  of sweeps on you.

 

As soon as you've gotten him into the tub, though, he starts grabbing at you, the set of his fins as insistent as it is demanding. And also cute as fuck. "You need something to eat, and something to drink."

"You've got all a that shit in your sylladex, sweets, so if you're only leavin to get me the fresh shit, you can forget about it an get in here right now."

"You're needy," you inform him, shucking your clothing and sliding into the bath with him. He wastes no time settling in against you, nuzzling all over your fins and face and throat, kicking up his sea-deep purr as he does. There's nothing for it but to settle with him, carding your hands through his bath and steam-floofed hair, nuzzling at him in return. "You're lucky you're cute."

"Thank the deeps for it every day, sweet one," he murmurs, and settles in close.

You can't help but smile, curling tight around him and kicking your own purr up in return—he's not the only one thanking the deeps for the gifts they've given and the life you've got.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> happy 4/13
> 
> the end piece of the floofpora fics!! I hope it is sufficiently soft


End file.
